I was about ten years old. I was
speeding down my steep driveway on a gleaming chrome Schwinn bicycle. Suddenly,
one of the Horwitz twins, either Sharon or Toby, was directly ahead, crossing
the driveway on the sidewalk. I swerved and lost control of my 26 inch bike,
landing head-first on a rock my mother brought back in the Chrysler trunk from a
trip to Florida. My mouth was bleeding, and I had broken my front tooth.

Our family dentist, Dr. Solon,
treated my wounded lips. He went to his back office and returned with a shot
glass full of Old Granddad. It burned, but I soon felt warm and content. He
filled my broken incisor with black amalgam. For the next five years, I learned
to smile without revealing my black-bottomed broken front tooth. When he was
satisfied that my adult teeth had grown sufficiently, Dr. Solon, using minimal
(and unique) anesthesia, ground that front tooth into (as described by my next
dentist) an "inverted teepee." Upon this, he glued a phony tooth made
out of silly putty and ground porcupine toenails. It was a bit smaller than my
other front tooth, and had a kind of faint greenish-blue disposition. It had a
habit of falling off regularly, at inopportune times. My next dentist carved the
"teepee" into an undercut yurt upon which he pounded a porcelain crown
with a silver hammer. This has proven more resilient, but there is still a
difference in color and texture, so I keep my mouth mostly shut.

I was a favorite of my college
speech teacher, because he said that my "barrel chest" was great for
breathing demonstrations. It could have been worse, but at the time, I was
working the all-night shift at a radio station in Akron, Ohio, and slept through
most of his 8:00AM classes. He may have been the first to point out my
slobber-lipped Cleveland accent. I tried to speak as few words as possible.

My passion for the theater and
electrical splicing talent got me a job in a summer theater company. On the eve
of my professional acting debut, the director pointed out my high, squeaky
voice. I struggled to get into the lower register, asking every brown cow,
"How now?" He also pointed out that I walked like an ostrich with a
hernia. My feet splayed out at inhuman angles, and as I walked, a person
watching could see the catís paw relief on the heels of my shoes, and the worn
holes in the soles.

As I arrived at my dorm room on the
USC campus, I held my lips slightly parted, my voice in the basement, my feet
painfully turned in, and my arms crossed to minimize my barrel chest. After a
few dates, I found out that I had the habit of crinkling up my eyes in a canyon
of porcine crevasses when I smiled. After an auto accident, back pain caused me
to walk in a slightly stooped "Minnie the Moocher" slide.
Straightening out from this gave me a whole new gait. Adding a few pounds, I
consciously tightened my stomach when I sensed observers off to the side. I
pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth to eliminate at least one of my
multiple chins.

One day I awoke to a turkey neck.
Where it came from, I donít know. I remember looking up from my desk at my
teachers and wondering at the grand canyon under their chins. It didnít stand
still, either, it shifted and moved and things were always happening down in the
gulch at the bottom. Now I had one.

Shaped like a pear, there is no
groove in my waistline upon which a pair of trousers could find purchase. Every
ten or fifteen steps, I have to stop and pull up my pants after they had become
spacious and baggy, and caught on the heels of my crocs. As my hair became
thinner, I tried to avoid back light, walking into the sun whenever possible.
Blinded, I wrinkled my squinty eyes and tripped on gopher holes and skinned
abrasions on my knees, tearing my baggy pants.

There, across the street, you see
the perfect specimen strolling purposefully. Inside, his body is screaming:
pain, fatigue, spasms. Lips only slightly parted to hide the bicuspid lost at El
Torito. Eyes flat, watering from the sun, tongue hiding multiple chins, feet
painfully twisted marching straight ahead, stomach tight, back straight Ė I
see your camera come out. Can I hold it long enough? The pain becomes
unbearable, thereís a gopher hole ahead, gum is choking, caught in my throat
Ė I canít hold it any longer.

Youíre proud to add the picture to
your album of friends. Caught like a deer at the instant before impact, unable
to reverse the passage of time. A slightly side angle, a bit of distortion in
that inexpensive lens, light breaking across a crumpled brow, bubble stomach
standing out against a bright background, light shimmering on a gleaming scalp
and all this work, all these years of suffering have become completely futile.